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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25309207">Divinity</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddierose/pseuds/stormqueen'>stormqueen (maddierose)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Booker's wife, Childhood Sweethearts, Coffee Shops, F/M, Immortality, Reincarnation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 01:57:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,961</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25309207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddierose/pseuds/stormqueen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Booker lost everything when he became immortal. Not just his three sons, but also his beloved wife, Eloise. Then Booker meets a woman who he is certain is Eloise. Unfortunately, the doppelganger says her name is Kathleen Page, spills his cappuccino on him and thinks the idea that she’s a reincarnated Eloise is completely ridiculous.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Booker/Sebastien Le Livre &amp; Original Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Divinity</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Alright so I fell in love with Booker in the movie and I had a bit of an idea. What if Booker met a woman with such a striking resemblance to his deceased wife, she may just be a reincarnation? What if Booker had a second chance at mortality with someone he loved? Anyway - please let me know what you think!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Booker</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Booker had frequented Screaming Beans Cafe on a regular basis over the past decade. The coffee was average, but the view of the city beyond was worth the constant patronage. Today was his first visit in a few months, and he noticed immediately that the cafe had changed. The space was less cluttered, the decorations minimalist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being alive for over two hundred years, he tended to get used to things changing, but it was still unnerving when it was a place he was so familiar with. It must have changed ownership recently. Taking off his sunglasses, Booker ordered his typical cappuccino at the counter, going to take a seat at one of the tables closest to the window.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tables there overlooked the city of Paris. Booker had been born in this city, though it had changed dramatically from the place he had grown up. He was the youngest of the immortals, barely over two hundred years old. Nonetheless, it felt like an eternity. Andy might have forgotten the faces of the people she’d left behind in her mortal life, but Booker hadn’t. His wife, his sons...he still remembered it all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could have gone to any cafe really. There were plenty in Paris. Booker had gotten used to the familiarity, and he found he enjoyed comfort more than the thrill of trying one of the flashy new places that had opened. Change was a given, though that didn’t mean Booker had to partake in it any more than he really wanted to - although in the instance of the cafe’s refurbishment, he hadn’t really had a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the smell in Screaming Beans was different. He had gotten used to the scent of burnt coffee beans, but it smelled like someone was burning a candle instead. Booker wasn’t great at picking scents, though he could detect a hint of sandalwood. It was nice. Soothing, almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The service was quicker, too. A woman set the cappuccino on the edge of the table within ten minutes of him ordering it. Before Booker could thank her, she’d turned and knocked the mug, causing murky hot liquid to splatter all over Booker’s pants. He hissed at the scalding temperature, even though he knew something like a burn would take moments to heal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit!” The blonde waitress immediately grabbed some serviettes, scrambling to fix the mess she’d made. “I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she looked up at him, expression apologetic, Booker froze in his chair, chest constricting with a mixture of hope and horror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eloise?” he whispered, voice hoarse and shaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’d been fifteen when they’d first met, already on the streets and participating in petty crime to keep himself afloat. He’d spent some years in an orphanage and didn’t particularly want to go back there, grimacing at the memory of a wooden cane rapping across his knuckles when he was caught stealing sweets from the kitchen after supper.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The street was where Booker - Sebastien then - felt at home. Amongst the foul-smelling smoke, he felt like he could disappear. Sometimes, it helped to pretend to be invisible. Between odd jobs, he’d often find himself huddled in the corners of Parisian roads, an upturned hat on the ground and a suitably dismal expression on his face.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He could never recall whether it had been December or January when he’d met her, but he remembered the icy bite of winter. Sebastien had been curled up beneath a lamppost, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to get warm.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re not going to make any money that way.” She had been thirteen at the time, with blonde curls reminiscent of an angel’s halo, framing a sweet face. The image of an innocent child was marred by the hardness of her blue eyes, eyes that told Sebastien she was not the delicate girl she appeared to be.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What?” His head jerked up, a frown contorting his features. She was dressed plainly, perhaps a fellow orphan - although certainly less grubby than him, as though she’d had a bath recently. She smelled nice too, spicy and sweet at the same time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“That’s not how you do it,” she said, tossing her golden curls over her shoulder with an air of experience.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Well, then, how would you do it?” Irritation coloured his voice. What would this silly little girl know anyway?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Watch and learn.” The girl leaned against the frost-covered lamppost, hugging her coat more tightly around her slender frame. She cast up and down the street for her victim, before deciding upon a middle-aged gentleman with a monocle. She almost knocked into the man, taking a few steps back, shoulders trembling. A consummate little actress.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Please, sir,” she begged, gripping the edge of the man’s coat. “My papa’s headed this way and if he catches me, he’s sure to give me a hiding. Please, can you tell me where I can find the closest pawn shop?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The man softened at her apparent distress even as Sebastien rolled his eyes. He gave her directions and continued down the street. The act vanished as quickly as she’d put it on, and she walked back over to him with a triumphant expression that he couldn’t see she’d earned.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“What exactly did that achieve?” he asked.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She unfurled her fingers to reveal the man’s coin purse. Sebastien laughed, clamping a hand over his mouth to stifle it as the sound echoed down the street.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“How does dinner sound?” she questioned with a mischievous little smile.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Dinner sounds delicious.” His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He held out a hand for her to shake. “Sebastian Le Livre.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Her grip was strong in his. “Eloise.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>In eight years’ time, she’d be his wife.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman blinked slowly. She was in her mid to late thirties, with shoulder-length blonde hair and light blue eyes. The more Booker inspected her, the more similarities he could see. Not even similarities - he remembered Eloise, and Kathleen was identical to his wife. It was eerie, since he knew that Eloise had been long dead and buried. She had died hating him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s Kathleen.” She pointed to the plastic name badge attached to her shirt. In her other hand, she clutched the wad of coffee-damp serviettes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Booker was unconvinced. He hadn’t lived as long as Joe or Nicky, or hell even Andy, but he’d been immortal for enough time to realise coincidences like this didn’t just happen. The woman could have been Eloise’s identical twin, yet she regarded him with wariness instead of recognition. To her, he was a customer. She truly had no idea who he was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” Booker raked his fingers through his hair, acutely aware of how awkward he now seemed. “I haven’t been here in a while. It’s changed. New owner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could say that.” Kathleen smiled wryly. Shit, even that lopsided smile, one corner of the lips curving upwards, was reminiscent of Eloise. “I bought it a couple months back. The one good thing to come out of a shitty divorce.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Divorced. So she had been married. For some reason, that sent unpleasant prickles running up Booker’s spine. It was like seeing a ghost, only the last time he’d seen Eloise...he tried not to think about, but the memory would haunt him until the day he finally did die. The woman he’d loved for so very long, eyes brimming with tears and loathing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andy claimed she didn’t remember her sisters, her parents. Booker wished he could forget, but he was a lot younger than Andy. When he had fallen for Eloise, he’d promised her forever together - and he’d broken that promise when she’d died without him. He had buried all three of his sons. Now, seeing this woman, who claimed her name was Kathleen…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finishing his cappuccino and heading out of Screaming Beans Cafe, Booker immediately unlocked his phone and dialled Andy’s number. She didn’t answer, which was fairly typical of her during the little hiatus she’d insisted upon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw a woman in my local cafe today. Andy...I think it’s Eloise.”</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <b>Kathleen</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Kathleen Page exhaled deeply and raked her fingers through her blonde hair, probably two days overdue for a thorough wash, as she unlocked the door of her tiny Parisian apartment. It had been almost a year, and she still wasn’t quite used to the cramped space in comparison with the spacious American McMansion she’d shared with her ex-husband. The guy was an asshole, so she didn’t regret leaving, or downsizing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d never really known why she’d picked Paris. It had been tempting to close her eyes, trace her fingers across a map and let the pieces fall where they may. But Paris...it had always been Paris. Once she’d purchased the Screaming Beans Cafe and started to integrate into French culture, Kathleen could almost pretend that this was a dream come true.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kathleen flicked on the light and tossed her handbag onto the couch, to be met with an indignant yowl and a blur of black fur. The noise made her jump, and she pressed a hand over her racing heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck. You scared me, Hector, you fluffy little bastard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bastard in question rubbed up against Kathleen’s leg, purring hopefully. Grabbing a microwave meal from the fridge, she reminisced on her encounter with the man who’d called her Eloise. There was something familiar about him, although Kathleen was sure she’d never met him in her life. Early forties, attractive in an unconventional sort of way...God, was she really thinking about hitting it off with a customer?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kathleen leaned against the bench as the microwave hummed. Too many long days and late nights. One day, maybe this would all be worth it. She refused to let her ex know she was struggling in any case - the asshole would probably gain some sort of sick pleasure from it. Kathleen had hoped the cafe was a wise investment, and the elderly French couple she’d purchased it from had been eager to palm it off and retire to the countryside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Retrieving her meal when the microwave beeped, Kathleen retreated to the couch with Hector to watch some French rom-com. She found that watching things in French helped her learn the language better, although she’d picked it up quickly. A lot of her staff said she spoke like a natural. She was sure that was just a compliment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mobile started to buzz. Kathleen sighed dramatically, certain it was one of the employees about to drop a shift. ‘Unknown number’ flashed across the screen and despite her instincts telling her to ignore the call, Kathleen found herself answering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is Kathleen Page.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ms Page.” It was a man’s voice, smooth and cool. Not the man from the cafe. A British accent. “My name is James Copley. I was hoping we could meet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, I don’t do dates with cold calls,” Kathleen frowned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing like that,” Copley insisted, “I’m former CIA. There’s a matter of urgency I need to discuss with you. I’m sorry for calling you so late, especially when you don’t know me. There’s a man who comes to your cafe, his name is…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know who you’re talking about.” She couldn’t have said how, but she knew Copley was talking about cappuccino guy. “What about him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you might be in danger.” The words made Kathleen feel like a tendril of ice had slithered down her spine. “Could we meet at your cafe tomorrow morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Kathleen murmured, gripping the phone tightly in her hand. When she’d expected trouble in Paris, this hadn’t really been what she’d pictured. She didn’t know if she trusted this Copley guy, but at least he was meeting her on her own turf. Between this and the cappuccino guy, could this week get any weirder?</span>
</p>
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